


Nightmare

by LadyTroll



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied Character Death, Nightmares, Present Tense, Skyhold (Dragon Age), Under Attack, also the rest of the Inner Circle but only in passing-by, some gore, the Anchor is acting up, the truth is I just got fed up and decided to post this the way it is, warning: VERY simple text
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:41:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22887994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTroll/pseuds/LadyTroll
Summary: It could be the stress of being in charge of a huge organization, or it could just be the Anchor acting up, but Lord Trevelyan is not having a good time.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> One more time: warning for REALLY simple text. I have been turning this around for 6 months now, but nothing better came to my mind, so just take it.
> 
> I tried to make it coherent, before I remembered that dreams Do Not Function Like That.

The mark itches.

Mages, red templars, the Venatori, the Archdemon. Corypheus. Skyhold. Cries of those buried under snow, ice and rocks; of those dying from the blades of the templars mad with red lyrium. Horror spreads through Alec Trevelyan’s being, as he watches people who put their lives in danger for the lost cause of the Inquisition perish one by one. He hears how they scream until their voices break. All unclear shapes in the dust and the smoke surrounding them, he makes out the slim shapes of Leliana and Josephine among them, together with a group of delegates and ambassadors. Cullen is there, too, doing his best to protect the small group, as the General of the Inquisition’s forces.

Smoke covers them from Alec’s view for a second, and then they are gone.

The impressive bulk always towering over his band of rowdy teenagers like a mother hen is gone as well, the Chargers scattered into Skyhold and leading out as many people as they can. Alec cannot make out whom the templars have surrounded in the garden, but they fight back ferociously, like cornered bears, until a Behemoth sweeps them aside and they become broken puppets. Their armour is dull and bright as the sun at the same time, a sword and a gryphon.

The tavern’s door has been barricaded. The bard’s song is eerie, a cacophony of sounds and words. How he ended up here, Alec does not even know. Neither does he have the time to wonder, for from upstairs comes a scream that makes the blood freeze in his veins.

\- You said it would keep him safe! Solas, you _promised_ it would keep him safe!

\- There must be something around here, - the large, dark whole blinks its many eyes at him, before it leaps at the demon that was once a boy.

It itches, it itches, it itches.

Soundless scream of agony. Or not. He cannot tell, too far away. The expression on Dorian’s face is surprised, mesmerized, as he glances down at the red lyrium protruding from his stomach. The Shadow is out of reach already, on the palisade, reaping its way into a group of soldiers, toppling them like figures in a game of chess.

A leap – and he is on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Varric is talking, but he might as well be speaking in tongues. For once, the storyteller makes no sense. He is away from the battle and caresses the red lyrium-covered Bianca lovingly. Vivienne’s eyes burn behind her mask, her skin glistens, as a layer of ice and snow covers it.

\- Latest fashion in Val Royeaux, dear.

His claws scratch, fangs tear, rend, maim, and there are sorry rags of red flesh and skin hanging from his left hand now, bone visible, thin green veins running through the skeletal white, and still it itches.

The gate is open, people fortunate enough to have avoided the initial assault pouring out. Those lucky to avoid the rain of arrows and fire the templars and the mages, unprotected against the Venatori and the demons, rain upon their heads, are caught in the blizzard raging outside the protective walls that does its best to cast them from the bridge. Roaring, the Archdemon soars down from the sky, and the bridge collapses, taking everybody with it.

Eyes red, gleaming with hatred and insanity, the dragon turns to look at the Inquisitor, before it leaps gracefully, like a giant cat.

The mage tower comes down and buries the yard and everybody in it – the Inquisition, the templars, the mages, the Venatori – in shambles of stone and lyrium, both blue and red, its shards embedded in the very stones, glistening like stars in the darkness, and silence settles in which there are no more voices, no more screaming. Not even an echo. 

Hands – disgusting, raw, rotten, oozing hands grasp at his legs from under the snow and rocks, and Alec finds himself unable to run. Not a sound comes out when he screams, and everything around has gone eerily quiet. Corypheus, from his spot on the dragon’s head, laughs, and no sound comes from his open mouth, that disfigured maw tainted with red crystals. The dragon’s paws cup Alec’s face, sharp claws digging into skin. Eyes, burning red coals, stare into the Inquisitor’s being. The mark itches. _Why does it itch? Maker, why does it itch?_ The monstrosity opens its maw and descends upon him.

\- _Amatus?_ \- the dragon croaks.

\- _Amatus!_ \- its shape fades, twists, turns and disappears into the darkness around them, taking the Magister with it.

\- _Amatus!_

Two hands belonging to the person who is leaning over him cup his face. Light is still dim, too dim for Alec to see much besides unclear shapes, as the sleep and the remnants, the shards of the nightmare, cling to him. Green flashes interrupt the twilight that the only remaining candle is unable to chase away, and in the room, there echoes the crackle of lightning somewhere very, very close to his left ear. An unpleasant feeling runs through his left arm and shoulder and echoes in Alec’s jaw – as though thousands of needles are prickling his skin.

He half expects the room around him to change, half hopes it will not. It does not, at the end. The mild twilight stays, and his breathing gradually slows down, in response to something warm pressed against his forehead.

\- That’s it. That’s it. Slowly. Just breathe.

Alec can feel the warm breath on his face as the words are spoken.

\- It was just a dream, _amatus_.

Slowly, he slips from the sleep and into reality. As his breathing and the heartbeat slow down, the prickling ceases as well, and the characteristic crackles of the Anchor fade into silence. Just as slowly, Alec starts registering other sounds around them: the crackle of fire in the fireplace; the howling of the icy winds outside the windows; the breath of the other person in the room.

A dream.

A nightmare.

Just a nightmare.

The mark itches.

**Author's Note:**

> Told ya.


End file.
